My friend Deanna died two years ago this November. She died at the age of thirty-six, of breast cancer that had metastasized to her bones (and finally, to her liver...) She and I talked a lot about missing anniversaries for "the sad stuff..." We both had a tendency to "forget" them. Her mother had died (melanoma, metastasized to the brain... ain't it a kick how genetically inclined the C-Monster is?) just a few months before I met Deanna, and year after year, she would "forget" the anniversary of her death. But a few days or weeks later, she'd find herself crying for no reason. Except, of course there really was a reason after all.
I haven't missed the anniversary of my friend's death. That's next month. But I have let the first of the month pass by without a thought several times since William died. I let Infant Loss Awareness day pass by without a mention. Why?
Deanna always wondered, too... why did she do that?
I think I know. Because it hurts too much to remember.
It's hard enough to have a day every month - the first day of every month - where William is so close to the surface of my thoughts and the center of my heart it's hard to breathe without pain. To have a day when I'm supposed to remember them all... all of the lost babies... how is one person supposed to hold that?
I was catching up on reading blogs today, and I must have made that sound, the one that's common around here anymore, a sighed, frowning "Awwww." When my husband asked me, "What?" I showed him the picture of a daddy holding his lost baby, M. looked, frowned, and made the same sound. "Awwww... another one..."
It wasn't a question. We both knew what we were looking at. We knew the looks on the faces - they had been our own. It's so universal, this pain, this experience. It's a picture from an alternate reality, somehow superimposed over what should have been. There's Daddy, holding his son, Mama looking on, and you can see it on their faces, what should have been. She's proud, look at how she looks at her son... she can't help but see the beauty of her baby. Daddy holds his future in his arms, smiling strangely for the camera, but you can't smile in this situation without pain. There is a smile there, but instead of joy, there is sorrow.
Now times that by ten... by ten thousand... by a hundred thousand...
We're all the same, our hearts cracked open before the world, raw and bleeding. And it doesn't stop. It never stops. Babies keep dying. Hearts get broken. Dreams smashed. Again. Again. Again. Our own pain compounded, over and over. Impossible pain times infinity.
It's no wonder that I didn't light a candle, that I kept my breath shallow and my tears checked. It hurts too much to remember my son... your son... your daughter...
But today I'm crying. Today I'm feeling them anyway, all of them, the lost souls, each light gone out. Today I'm breathing deep, heaving, cleansing sobs and wondering why I bother to fight it... it's going to come anyway. The pain comes like the tide, like babies dying, unstoppable.
I am helpless. It hurts to much to remember. And I can't help but remember.
What I think my friend, Deanna, didn't realize (and me, with her...) is that when we allow ourselves to remember... especially when we are connected, remembering together... somehow... when we are all united in this pain... there is some sort of comfort in it.
I didn't light a candle on October 15 this year. But I felt the love and light from those who did. Even in the dark hole I'd dug to hide in, I felt it. And I was grateful.
Maybe next year... maybe next year I'll be brave enough to light a candle.
12 comments:
Each month I watch the 17th and the 25th approaching. Often they do pass without too much thought. This month is the 6 month mark, and I'm finding it hard not to think a lot about Lachlan, and it hurts so much. Like you said, it's no wonder that sometimes we just want to let these days pass.
I'm so sorry for your friend Deanna.
This is lovely. I think remembering "together" helps us to feel supported and understood. Hoping you will be able to join us next year, but do know there were many candles lit in memory of your angel and all the others too. xx
Remembering and allowing yourself to remember is so extremely painful. I hope you continue to take it in at your pace. It is so different for everybody but I think we all get there, how we push things away because they just hurt too much. And you are right this pain is universal and I know that smile you are talking about. It's a smile of complete sorrow and fleeting perfection. There is definitely comfort in knowing we are not alone in this horrible horrible grief of losing a child.
It is painful to remember. But sometimes it's frightening to feel like you are forgetting. I have felt guilty for not remembering the 14th of the month, or the 17th of the month but I know they are going to come around again. They come every 30 days. But I can't separate it to remember just 1 day. Or to honor just 1 day. There were so many last April that haunt me. I'm not there yet. I want to be. But it's still one big nightmare that I haven't woken up from. Still doesn't seem real. Six months later it still doesn't seem real. And that is painful, too. I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. I know she is looking after William.
xxxooo
Christy
reading this i was thinking, i must have forgotten a 30th as it passed by... but no, i havent. because so far, there have only been 2. i am SO new on this journey, yet i feel like ive been doing it for years. im exhausted and i dont wanna do it anymore.
It does hurt to remember but, as you said so beautifully, it is impossible to forget. And even if we could somehow forget, I dont think that we would... We cant... We love them too much.
Ah Beth... I remember those early days (and I never really believed I'd say "I remember those early days" either...) when the grief was a 24/7 thing, SO exhausting... I remember being sick of it, wanting to feel anything BUT sad... but I couldn't. I couldn't turn it off. It was a totally new experience for me (I'm pretty damned good at turning off my feelings if I need to...) I was totally not in control. Of course, control was an illusion to begin with. I remember other women saying to me, "I remember the early days" and "It gets better" and thinking that I believed them, but couldn't imagine it. I know it's where you are now. It DOES get better. But I know you can't imagine it. We don't have a choice except to be where we are in the moment in this journey... there's no skipping ahead or back... and I'm so, so sorry :(
I don't think grief is really great at following a calendar. It comes when it comes
It's hard, not just on the 15th, or even on the anniversaries, but every day makes it hard to breathe without our babies. Knowing they should be alive and breathing, but are not, makes it so much harder to go on.
I never got any pictures holding my son. Apparently I told the nurses I didn't want to. I vaguely remember telling them no, because I was too sad and didn't want to look sad holding my son. I was so, so silly.
Holding you tight today, thinking of you...
I get it. I don't have the words I used to have anymore. I'm feeling exhausted and sort of taking a brief break from focusing on losing Matthew lately. So I get it.
I think remembering together is so much better than remembering alone. It can be overwhelming the many that are to be remembered.
10:07...I forever thought that I would see that time and cry. BUt to be honest, in the 9 months sine Logan's death, I haven't seen it once. Maybe there is a part of me that knows that time is coming, so I don't look. The 24th. I never realize its the 24th. And MOST saturdays I don't dwell on it. MOST. I didn't light a candle either. I "forgot" to buy the candle. I "forgot" when 7pm rolled around. But honestly, I think it is helpfull that I have these memory lapses. Maybe my brain knows enough to protect me...at least for now.
Your posts always choke me up. You have such a way with words. I am sorry that you are dealing with the anniversary of your friends death this month. Like you don't have enough grief.
Post a Comment